


Brought Out Their Burrs and Mosses

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fawnlock, Gen, conversing with fauns, leaving London for beechwood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-21
Updated: 2013-09-12
Packaged: 2017-12-09 01:44:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/768524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pastoral, sylvan life proves different from that of the London John knows. Especially when the woods are full of fauns.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bennyslegs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bennyslegs/gifts).



> Inspired by her creation of a beautiful alternate universe, this fic is my gift to Paula! I look forward to playing within this fantasy-realism environment. I will be basing this fic largely on Paula's established certainties for the alternate universe, my own headcanons, and a healthy dose of creative license regarding the landscape.
> 
> Title from Emily Dickinson.

It had all been somewhat of a shock. Bullet to the shoulder. Shrapnel, infections, emergency operations. Physical rehabilitation on home soil. Seeing a therapist. Living on a military pension in a dismal bedsit in a state of disconnect. Little more appealed than limping down the street for the shopping, tinned food, or having a coffee in the park when the weather was pleasant. No one was interested in hiring an invalided army doctor with a weak shoulder and a bad knee. There was only so long that his supplemental funding would cover living expenses.

His therapist wanted him to keep a blog. He was fortunate enough to have a functioning computer. Harry had exceeded his expectations enough by gifting him a (regifted) phone. He never held his breath in anticipation that she might also contribute toward a laptop. An old model. Slightly out of date by the looks of it. Used — the previous owner forgot to clear their internet history of searches for local singles and easy chicken recipes — and still overpriced. Still, he conceded to the wishes of his therapist.

“Nothing.”

“Pointless. Nothing happens to me.”

Attempts to delete the blog. Passive aggressive comments toward his therapist. Half-hearted accounts of a night out at the pub with friends from Blackheath. Commenting on the news.

Just when he nearly abandoned the blog, an old acquaintance recognized him on the street. Offered to buy lunch. They recounted the glory days of studying at St Bart’s and avoided the details of John’s condition. He watched Mike Stamford’s eyes flick to his shoulder once — just the once — before respectfully avoiding his arm in general (and the clenching of his left hand against his thigh under the table). Mike told him of new medical procedures being taught to new students. How a young hopeful nearly fainted at the sight of unpackaged scalpels before a practice procedure. John laughed and flinched. Surprised at the mirthful sound coming from his own throat. Cleared his throat. Took a drink of water.

“How’re you doing, though,” Mike asked, breaking apart the crusts of his sandwich. “Staying in town until you have things sorted?”

“I can’t afford London on this pension,” John admitted.

“Couldn’t Harry help?”

“She’s done enough. Besides,” he continued, chasing down a mouthful of chips with more water, “I didn’t think I could bear to be anywhere else. Now I’m not so sure. London’s not the same when it’s not how I remembered.”

“Not even a flat share?” Mike added another packet of sugar to his coffee.

“Don’t have any income. I’d be an awful flatmate. Never keep up on the rent.”

At the small smile blooming across Mike’s mouth John should have known he would not be able to move conversation away from the subject.

“But you’re not opposed to renting?”

John squinted into his mug of tepid tea. “What’re you suggesting?”

That had been nearly six months ago.

After notifying his landlord and therapist and sister, John found himself packing his meagre belongings into a van (which seemed ready to break down at any moment’s notice, much to the mover’s dismay as he apologised profusely, face as red as his hair). One of Mike’s cousins had bought a cabin in Hampshire, intending to use it as a vacation home or rent it out during the summer. However, a more successful forest holiday chain — catering to the idyllic getaway without much of the actual rustic experience — established a location not far down the road. Without business, the cousin was forced to admit defeat. Set back in a beech wood forest, the landscape seemed as far from London as Afghanistan had been.

Far from the bustle of traffic and smog, the cabin was homey. Just off the main road and away from the sizable, financial tourist traps on the less densely wooded edge of the forest. Mike’s cousin was grateful, willing to negotiate a lower rent as John looked for available work. To his surprise there was a clinic less than ten minutes away in the nearby town. Understaffed. Underwhelming. Nowhere near as impressive as the surgery he considered applying to in London. He was overqualified but hired quickly.

Open from eight in the morning until six in the evening, closed on weekends, closed on holidays. Two receptionists and four doctors rotating to tend the members of the sleepy town. Pay was fair. Shifts were evenly distributed. Buses were timely. Lunches in the square were affordable. Coffee was consistently bitter and a tad on the scalding side. He was pleased to have found some fault with the town. Then winter came.

Roads iced over, there was a persistent fog, wind whistled against the windows of his cabin at night. He began taking an earlier bus — nearly an hour earlier — in order to compensate for decreased driving speeds. Commuters and travellers gave him odd looks as he limped up the steps, to a seat, and back off the bus in twenty minutes and one bus stop later. Every day. Three months. He caught a stubborn chest cold which limited him to bed rest for nearly a week and a half.

Caroline Graham and her daughter Marcie stopped by with stew and decongestants. They offered to make him tea (as he sat hunched over a mug, steam dewy against his throat) or at least wash his dishes. Before John could decline, quilted blanket slipping around his shoulders, a clatter on the porch startled Marcie. She rushed to the small kitchen window over the sink. Crept along the wall to peer past the drapes. Her mother beckoned her back, warning her to “stay away from the glass. If it’s a bird it might break the window.” John sighed heavily, which escalated into a rasping, wet cough. Slapping his sternum with an open palm.

“Well, I'm sure it’s nothing to worry about,” Caroline said, gathering Marcie to her side. “I don’t see anything and— Oh!”

Opening the front door, she crouched forward slightly. Marcie leaned across her back. Over her shoulder.

“Come see this!” Caroline called. “Nothing to worry about, but come see. It seems you have a visitor.”

John pried himself from the comfort of his couch (worn leather, seams carefully resewn along the armrests). Tugged the quilt tighter around his arms. Joining the pair in their rapturous observation, John felt a sound of surprise rise in his chest. Spattered across the wooden slats of the front porch were muddy footprints. Half-moons and round pads for the ball of a foot and five toes.

“Is that a bear?” Marcie’s small voice was reedy and frightened.

“No, love, there’re no bears around here. Look at the toes. Too long. No claws. Don’t know what it could be.”

John watched them leave. He crouched to look at the prints. Sent into another coughing fit by the cold air, he retreated back to his couch and his television. Told himself that the prints certainly did not look like, could not look like, definitely were not vaguely human in shape.

That had been nearly three months ago.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All trees and flowers mentioned in this chapter are native to England and have symbolic interpretations provided in the end notes. Identification of antler growth, body markings, and seasonal coat can be found here at the official [reference sheet](http://fawnlock.tumblr.com/post/43691578467).
> 
>  **8.11.14 EDIT:** [Commissioned illustration from Tai](http://taikova.tumblr.com/tagged/tais-commission-info) now accompanies this piece. Follow link for commission information.

On the evening of the first thunderstorm of spring, John returned from the clinic to find more muddy footprints. A pile of beech branches and cowslip blooms on the welcome mat. Scores of wood gouged from the doorframe. John felt his shoulders stiffen.

“Hello?” Keys held firm in his grasp. One hand on the doorknob behind him. “I don’t know what you want from me. Just . . . Just stop this. I have nothing of value for you.”

Shaking the rain from his umbrella, he propped it against the wall inside. Stepped over the foliage on the mat. Toed off his boots. Waited for a response. He shook his head, berating himself for believing someone would rise to his weak challenge. John dug his thumb into the wood chipped away near the latch and wiped his fingers on his sleeve. Allowed one final look across the lawn.

“I’m armed,” he added weakly, letting the door slam behind him.

Moving to flip the calendar to March (he counted the remaining days until Harry’s birthday in his head), he thought he saw movement through the window overlooking the porch. Crashing among the underbrush was what seemed to be a man with—

“Antlers.” John ran a hand over his face.

As he stoked the pot-bellied stove to life with kindling wood, John missed the sound of soft footfalls on the porch. Missed the scraping of beech branches and the rustle of leaves as a sycamore branch was added to the pile. Missed contented snorting and a flash of white tail.

After one week, John forgot about the shrubbery deposited on his front step (he had added it to the pile near the fire pit nestled within the ring of stones). After a fortnight, John forgot how the door had sustained its damage. On a Saturday, free of plans and obligations other than calling to wish his sister well on her birthday, John tugged on his boots for a walk down the dirt path to the post box. Mobile against his shoulder, letting Harry’s voice rush over him, he tucked his pyjama pants into the winter boots with laces dangling against the floor. Thick woollen cardigan wrapped around his chest, he opened the door and let out a shout.

“John? What’s going on? You alright?”

Breath caught in his chest, John stared back at the (not-quite human) figure before him. Pale-bright eyes blinked back as if offended by John’s outburst. It — he, John corrected himself, it was definitely male with its broad chest and fine ruff of fur from throat to groin — gave an open-mouthed grunt and stumbled backward off the porch. Wide nostrils flared and snorted, nose turned up and away. His broad ears flicked back to lie flat among dark, curly hair tangled with leaves. Faint bands of colour around his arms and legs shifted as muscles rippled with tension.

“You there?”

John watched as the faun’s chest and stomach heaved with deep breaths, ears and tail restless, toes curling into the dirt. Head lowered, it made as if to intimidate John with its antlers before realizing how small they were. Still covered in velvet, the prongs of spongy bone held no threat. It grunted again and leaped away. Crashed through the underbrush into the woods.

“John? John?”

“Right, sorry!” He flinched away from the door. Another offering of beech and sycamore branches cracked underfoot. Sweeping them aside, John craned his neck to watch for bobbing antlers among the trees.

“What the hell is going on out there?”

“There was a . . . deer,” John answered, still twisting to look out over the low shrub and flowers as he neared his post box.

“It was right in front of me! On my porch!” Sifted through a small bundle of post: local news bulletin, notice for impending month’s pay, advertising for snow clearing services. “It ran off.”

After four hours (rubbing his eyes, phosphenes dancing on his eyelids), John still saw the freckled cheeks, neck, and shoulders of the faun. After seven hours (pushing the kitchen chairs in after dinner, legs scraping on the vinyl flooring), John still heard the shocked bleat as it shied away from him. After ten hours, John lie in bed with the covers pulled up to his throat. Resigned himself to never seen the faun again as he had, without a doubt, frightened it away. Palms pressed to his cheeks, fingers settled along pale eyelashes, he wondered what his therapist would say if she knew that he had resigned himself to acceptance of a hallucination.

Hampshire was no place to be having a relapse or imagining deer-men living in the woods behind his cabin. Rolling to his side — away from the slant of light creeping through the curtain — and inhaling the soft scent of detergent in clean bed sheets, John told himself it had only been a deer. Just as he told Harry. Nothing more than a red deer. With huge blue eyes and cupid’s bow lips and thumbs, toes, and high cheekbones. John rolled to his stomach. Wrapped the pillow around his ears and cursed. Decided to keep the branches in a crate near the front door rather than toss them to the fire pit.

In the morning, John dressed for the weather (cold breath billowing in the late remnants March frost) and ventured into the shed. Without much light from the bulb hanging from the ceiling, he rooted around in the odds and ends left behind by Mike’s cousin. Rakes, trowels, and a hoe. He could revive the garden fenced off near the back of his plot of land. Croquet mallets and balls. Two boxes of tools. Another folding chair. Shovels and a lawn mower. Finally, to his surprise, John found a barrel. Clearing a path from the door, work gloves on and tucked into his sleeves, he dragged the barrel with its drooping hoops and missing rivets onto the grass. Easing the barrel back over to its side, John kicked it until it rolled to the lip of the porch. Tucked it under the overhang where it would not collect snow or rain. He dropped the branches into the wide-mouthed opening (leaves blossoming out of the top like a bouquet) and went to collect the branches he moved weeks ago.

Dragging the beech and sycamore across the grass, bark splintering off along the way, John fumbled with the branches and promptly dropped them on his feet. [Standing before the barrel, spine rigid and tail flapping contentedly, the faun held a length of hornbeam branch in his arms.](http://taikova.tumblr.com/post/94457782008) He turned around at the clatter and John’s sharp intake of breath. Branch clutched to his chest, the faun took a hesitant step toward John. Quickly stooping over to collect the wood, John cleared his throat. Noticed the branching antlers crowning the faun’s curly scalp seemed to have grown overnight.

“You came back,” he said, shifting the branches in his arms.

The faun snorted and rolled his eyes. “Obvious.”

“Obvious, of course, I know you’re standing right in front of m—”

John froze.

“You can speak. English.”

“Yes,” the faun answered. “Learn from others. Other men. Come to woods and sleep on ground. Brought you gift!”

He shook the branch at John, waiting for a response. John rearranged his pile and took a step closer. From the porch, the faun cocked an eyebrow at him. Ducked to scratch at his thigh with downy antlers. Straightened up and shook out his hair.

“You take?” His long tongue flashed between his lips. Streaked against the side of his broad nose. He looked confused. “For you.”

Edging nearer, John took the new branch and mumbled his thanks. Turned the tree samples over to deposit them into the barrel. Green leaves rustled together and against the cabin wall. John considered that they looked nice. Even though the cowslip flowers had long since withered and fallen back to the soil.

“I don’t know why— Wait!” John turned as the faun darted away, loping back into the woods.

Waist-deep in the tall grasses and shrubbery, the faun paused. Glanced over his shoulder. His tail turned up, bright white fur flagging as he darted behind a tree and disappeared. John leaned against the cabin. Slipped the gloves from his cold fingers and blew on his knuckles. He shook the gloves (fragments of cobwebs and finely ground sawdust clinging to the soft leather) and went inside for a cup of coffee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beech trees: past knowledge, softening criticism  
> cowslip flower: spring, winning grace  
> sycamore trees: protection, intuitive strength, favors  
> hornbeam trees: stubbornness, genuine warmth


	3. Chapter 3

Cold eastern winds brought the month of March and more fleeting visits from the faun. John would return from the clinic (tedious small talk with patients about correct dosages of anti-inflammatory medications and the unusually harsh winter weather). Once home, he would shed his outerwear. Put on the kettle. Make two sandwiches — one for himself, one for his guest — and wait. Most nights would bring no appearance from the stranger. On evenings when the faun crept onto the porch and pressed his broad hands to the front door, snuffling in excitement at the promise of peanut butter sandwiches and spoonfuls of strawberry jam, John would sit on the cold floor. Leave the door open as they conversed over the threshold.

John smiled at the faun eating with the bread pinched between his fingertips, ring and little fingers extended endearingly. Ears rotating to take in road noise, the rising whistle of the kettle, and the pair of Tawny owls in an evergreen near the shed, the faun gestured with his chin.

“What your name?”

After one month of familiarity, John realized they never exchanged names. Fractured grammar ruined the otherwise graceful command the faun had over the English language. He reminded John how he learned through observation. Investigation. Details such as auxillary verbs, possessives, coloquial terms, and conjugation often passed over his understanding. Or interest. Coughing slightly, John watched the faun flick crumbs from his fingers onto John’s crossed legs.

“John,” he replied, brushing at his jeans. “John Watson.”

“Oh. Good.”

John waited. Watched the faun straighten to look over his shoulder. Faintest rings of reflective tapetum around the pale irises creating inhuman eyeshine. Behind John, the kettle whistled freely (and loudly). Pushing himself to hands and knees, feet tingling with pins and needles, he lumbered to the kitchen to switch off the hob. Poured two mugs of tea. Added equal parts milk to one mug with persistent dirt on the handle no matter how thoroughly he washed with soap.

Hands outstretched, attention otherwise to a distraction somewhere outside in the lawn, the faun turned back to John only once his fingers were forcibly curled around the handle. He seemed pleased with the sweetness of his drink, licking at his lips.

“Name meaning? Meanings give strength and identity. Make you more connected to self.”

“According to my mum, ‘God is gracious.’” John hesitated. Unsure how to explain Christian significance to an otherwise non religious individual. “It’s, ah, Biblical. Think my parents just liked the way it sounds.”

“Father spirit? I hear of him sometimes,” the faun replied, idly swirling his mug, milky tea slopping over the rim onto his feet. “Some men hate him. Blame him. Others treat like fæder.”

Sensing an uncertain shift in conversation, John attempted to right the balance. “What about yours? Your name, I mean.”

“My name contrad— contrudict— contradiction. Scir-lock. Means ‘bright hair.’”

“ _Bright_ hair? Was it blonde when you were younger?”

“Perhaps. Perhaps mōdor and fæder just liked sound. Hard to remember them. Have been alone for some time without family or kin. For later though. Say it!” Suddenly animated, the faun reached out to grab John’s wrists.

“Say what, your name? Scer— Scherlock?”

A noise of (frustrated) consideration. “Close. No. Again.”

Forty minutes, two mugs of tea, a brief discussion of the bus John took into town, and another sandwich later John was no closer to pronouncing the archaic name tumbling in his uncertain mouth. Finally, the faun held up his hands. Patted John’s knee. Pulled him to his feet.

“‘Sherlock’ is good. Very good. Have not heard my own name in many years. Thank you.”

John attempted to rub warmth back into his arms and fingers as the faun loped away. Wondered how much longer it would take to help Sherlock become accustomed enough to the cabin to venture inside. April and rain were due. He did not enjoy the thought of shouting over howling winds and mopping mud from the floor because his home frightened his curious acquaintance.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock first entered the cabin on his own terms and at John’s inconvenience. John woke one morning before sunrise to a damp nose pressed along the arch of his foot. He jolted, narrowly missing the faun’s jaw. With a bleat and a bristling tail, Sherlock tumbled off the bed and scrambled across the floor into the hall. Indignant grumbling could be heard from the living room. John considered rolling over and going back to sleep. He then thought of Sherlock accelerating into ennui and causing property damage in his need for stimulus. Groaned. Swung his legs over the mattress — tangled in the duvet and quilt. John bundled both blankets in his arms and followed the sounds of unrest. He found Sherlock in the sitting room overturning the crate of kindling by the pot-bellied, iron stove.

“When’d you get in?” John shivered and drew the blankets tighter around his chest before he noticed the front door swinging freely.

“Few hours. Sky much darker then. You make noise in sleep. Dreaming makes you look soft like a . . .” Sherlock’s lips pursed. While the faun hesitated, John retrieved a flannel from the kitchen and set to drying the footprints tracked into his home.

“Like a ċild. Like to watch you sleep. Peaceful.”

“Well, Sherlock, that is a bit unsettling. To be honest.”

Sherlock’s ears drooped. His hands curled at his throat.

“That you watch me sleep. Not that I look . . . peaceful,” he said and gestured to the couch. Waited for the faun to sit. “Are you cold?”

“Of course not. I have fur.” Sherlock tugged at his ruff (head low, chin to his chest). Twisted the rough hair around his fingers. His tail waved briefly before he turned away. “Should not have come.”

“Wh— You just got here! I’ve been trying to get you to come inside for ages!”

“Yes, true. Your territory. Should not have come.”

Sherlock edged around the furniture, arms tight to his chest, submissive in his retreat. Let the door slam behind him. He hesitated at the front step (John could see through the decorative panes of glass on the heavy wooden door) and bounded away. John reclined on the couch, swaddled in blankets, and drifted back into restless sleep. He finally jerked into alertness when his muscles loosened; the pain in his neck triggered cramping in his leg. John tried in vain to keep his hand from clenching involuntarily around the (psychosomatic) pain in his thigh.

Sherlock did not return that afternoon. John woke to an empty cabin for the next three mornings. Near the end of the week he thrashed in his sleep. Damp with sweat from hairline to armpits to the small of his back. Woke with a rasping cry — throat tight and dry — and lashed out blindly. A clatter erupted into the silence as Sherlock toppled from the rocking chair. Wide-eyed and nostrils flaring they mirrored each other. John dragged his hands over his face (forced himself to take stock of the coolness of spring air, soft bedding beneath his legs, smell of evergreen and faun, hot pricking tears at the corners of his eyes). An unbidden sob hissed through his teeth.

“John hurt?” Hands outstretched, Sherlock moved as if to climb onto the bed.

Before the faun’s knees touched the mattress John swung at him with a pillow. “Get out!”

Sherlock sat back on his heels. Crept closer.

“Damn it, Sherlock. Just leave!” John shoved Sherlock away (perhaps with unnecessary force) only to have calloused fingers wrap around his wrists.

Struggling in vain. Weight used to his advantage to tip Sherlock over and used against him when whipcord limbs pinned him down. Face hot with shame and fear. Antlers glancing off his shoulder as they fought. Sharp yelp of pain as Sherlock twisted away too late. Forearms locked under the struggling faun’s armpits, John felt his lungs straining. Sherlock collapsed into dead weight against his chest. Leaning back and away from the bone tines surrounding his face John bit his lips to quiet the fear threatening to spill from himself.

“Hurt?”

“Does it _sound_ like I’m hurt?”

“Yes.” Sherlock lowered his face to John’s bullet wound. Pressed his nose to the flesh. “Hurt here. Old pain. Lost your family like me.”

“They weren’t—” John released and let Sherlock roll to the empty half of the bed. “Weren’t family. Not in the sense you’re thinking.”

“Family like herd. Order and command. Respect. Family does not end with blood. Sometimes blood is strongest but can cause most hurt. Herd family painful when separated but grows less so in time.”

“We were more like a pack. Predators.”

“Still same.”

John inhaled slowly, pleading his lungs to take in oxygen to ease the pounding in his skull pressed to the headboard. Rubbed his eyes with the ridge of his knuckles. Heart racing in his chest, throat and chest prickling with cold sweat, left hand trembling. Fully awake yet physically exhausted. John turned his pillow over (cool side pressed to the dry skin of his cheek) and stared at Sherlock.

“Why did you come?” His question sounded feeble.

Sherlock rubbed at the base of his antlers. “Heard your surr— sahr— sorrow. Fear is—” he waved his hands as if attempting to draw the word to his lips “almost felt. Heavy, like heat in the air after rain. Like your hands in the river, water fight against fingers. I knew.”

“Knew what?”

“You needed me.”

Disbelief visible in the set of his jaw. Compromising sigh in the deflation of his chest. John pulled the blankets back up to his throat.

“Am not natural. You know this much. Have been in these woods for many years after losing my herd. Brother was all I had when we—”

“I was in a _war_ , Sherlock,” John said, propping himself on his elbows. “Humans killing other humans.”

“There was a fire,” Sherlock snorted. “Set by man. Careless paper stem for smoking thrown into the leaves. Caught on the brush and threw ash.”

Sherlock’s voice hollow and resinous. John balked. Wished he had not provoked the faun.

“Ate entire forest. Family not lost like wandered away. Family taken by fire. Trapped under trees pinned down into soil. Roots whipping air. Fæder lead herd to river and went back for mōdor. I was a fawn. Small and weak. She died protecting Mýðecroft and me from black-lung. Fæder picked us like burrs from her body. Died with her.

“Mýðecroft was only family left. Home destroyed. Humans tried to repair and made worse. Soil ruined by flame not hold saplings planted. Land ruined. Brother ran cradling me to him like mōdor carrying fawn ċild. Could have died together. Lived long enough to lose each other. Brother still alive. Separated by my fault. My pain to him made him leave.”

Sherlock’s reflective eyes glimmered and John wondered if the faun would (could) cry.

“Long ago. Still know to fear humans. Still see fire in night visions. You look afraid in sleep when night visions dark from past. Reminds me how we are almost same. Close. Here.” Long fingers tapping unbroken skin over John’s heart. “And here.” Over his furrowed brow.

“But you’re not . . . human.”

“Does that make me wrong? Bad?”

“No, Sherlock, of course not.”

John heard the faun leave the bed. Felt a sharp tug on the covers.

“What are you doing?”

“I think of you as herd, if convenient. Not blood but close. Heart and head. Speak to feel and understand pain. Move over. Your feet cold.”

Sherlock burrowed into his side, tail tickling John’s exposed hip. Counting off time between each inhalation and exhalation John waited for the faun to fall asleep. Adjusted his shirt (which had twisted up over his stomach). Curled in on himself to remove his socks and throw them to the corner. Finally laid back. Waited for his own sleep to return from where it had been lost as if wandering.


End file.
